


A Modern Myth

by mycrofts-brokenheart (thisisourscience)



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisourscience/pseuds/mycrofts-brokenheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU prompt: Silva and Bond are things of myth</p><p>"Bond’s eyes had always been an eery shade of blue, but something about the way they seemed to almost glow--it was unnatural. Something old and hungry seemed to peer through at him in those eyes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Did we create a modern myth  
Did we imagine half of it  
What happened then, a thought for now

Save yourself  
Save yourself  
The secret is out  
The secret is out

To buy the truth  
And sell a lie  
The last mistake before you die  
So don't forget to breathe tonight  
Tonight's the last so say good-bye

The secret is out 

Good-bye....

 

*

James Bond is in India when everything goes to hell. He feels it more than sees it when Patrice pulls a cold iron weapon on him on top of the train. Years of life and 00 training are all that keep him from holding in his flinch at the sight of the blessed weapon. He never gets to feel the burn of Patrice’s weapon, instead he feels a sharp pain in his shoulder and the shock alone is enough to propel him off the train into the water below. The last thing he remembers before passing out as the icy the water sweeps him downstream is Moneypenny saying, “Agent down.” 

*

James Bond’s smile is like a loaded gun, Tanner thinks. The man had always been ruthless in his precision, being compared to a guard dog more than once. He had only seen the 00 agent truly smile once during his time at MI6; after coming out of a briefing with the late-M. He can’t repress his shudder at the memory. The agent had locked eyes with him briefly. Bond’s eyes had always been an eery shade of blue, but something about the way they seemed to almost glow--it was unnatural. Something old and hungry seemed to peer through at him in those eyes. He could’ve ignored it had he not seen the way the agents teeth seemed to curve in the light--feral and knife sharp. Just as quickly as he saw them however, Bond had schooled his face. Sometimes Tanner thinks he imagined the whole thing. He pushes the memory to the back of his mind, dwells on it only occasionally until it begins to unsettle him. Months later MI6 is blown to kingdom come, and it is in the ensuing hunt for the culprit he gets his answer. Sometimes Tanner hates his inquisitive nature. 

*

 

“Why come back?”, Mallory had asked him upon his return to England. 

Rest had never suited him well. He’d had centuries of “rest” and he despised every second of it. Working for M had brought some of the thrill back into his life. He was sure he’d never feel so alive ever again. Just as quick as it all began it ended. Moneypenny shooting him was like the flip of a switch, the lights gone out on an already shadowy stage. The need for action is embedded into his very blood, he craves it the same way an addict craves their drug of choice. Simply letting himself fade into obscurity was not an option. He can feel himself growing tired of this endless routine, and he knows his hatred of this rigid order he finds himself following will win out. Until that moment he contents himself with the knowledge that his purpose in life is secure. He will continue to silences his thoughts and pull the trigger when told like a good little guard dog. 

*

When M was a little girl her grandmother would tell her stories of the fae folk. Impossibly gorgeous beings, but prone to mischief should you arouse their intention. Sometimes she would go out into the garden among the roses and recite a poem her grandmother taught her:  
Little folk of flashing wing,  little folk of dancing feet,  hear my words to you and bring  blessings with you when we meet

She would sigh in discontent when nothing happen, often times sitting outside until the call of her mother brought her back inside for supper. If she had looked a bit closer at the trees surrounding the garden she might have noticed him. Glacial blue eyes crinkled in amusement at the curiosity of the child. Once upon a time he would have spirited her away to the courts of the Unseelie, but not now. Instead he decides to fulfill her wishes. Many years later when that child’s hair has lost its golden hue he comes to her. He lets her use him as she will. He comes to her as an orphan, as clay for her to mold into her perfect 00 agent, a trained killer. James lets her play her games with him; at times he barks with laughter and thinks to himself how wonderful it is that this child who once wove crowns of flowers and sang of fairies has come so far. 

*

There was something undeniably unnatural about James Bond, something that made others want to avert their eyes and pretend that the man isn’t there. There is a certain depth to his stare that belies his true age. Fathomless, they call them, like two deep pools of water. No amount of fae magic can disguise the otherworldly aspect of his appearance. Besides the fae had always been a beautiful race, taking pride in their glamours.  
James’ mouth quirks up in a semblance of a smile as his fingers nimbly push the buttons through the holes of his Tom Ford dress shirt. Eve had come closest when she said, “old dog, new tricks.” Not so new though he muses. He is a creature of violence, a harbinger of death, created for the hunt itself. He has existed before the glass and steel cities of men and he shall exist long after they are but rust upon the earth. He thinks it quaint how well he is able to blend in amongst the humans. Gone is his true form, a ghastly green hound the size of a large bull. In its stead is Bond, James Bond. A Commander of the Royal Navy, a Queen and Country Man, quintessentially British.  
Underneath his facade he remains as he ever has, but for now, with M and MI6 he finds himself placated. Tales of his inability to die circulate constantly around MI6. They say he should be dead. After all, no MI6 agent, let alone a 00, has come as far as he has. The betting pools have gone on for years as people continue to wonder if he’ll actually be the first 00 to make it to retirement age in the last 30 years. He pretends not to hear the rumors.  
He had long ago stopped counting his actual age just as his fae masters have long since abandoned this realm for their courts in the other realm.  
The days when his paws flew unrestricted over the lush grass of the Scottish highlands are over. Nowadays he is restricted in the what he can do. MI6 had come as a godsend if you would. A solution to his problem. For all their laws and plays at being civilized, humans were just as violent as they had always been. Only now they hide their blood thirst behind their governments instead of the nameless, faceless gods of old. He wields a gun now, efficient but not as personal as he would like. 

Though not as many believe in the fae folk as they once did, he is still beholden to their beliefs, cold iron and salt can cause him more harm than any bullet. Cold iron so named not for its temperature, but for the cold feeling it causes when it strikes you; a sluggish feeling almost as if your blood has turned to ice. Lucky for him, meteoric iron is now more commonly seen in museums than weapons. The chances of someone finding out what he is are slim, he’s become adept at hiding in plain sight over the centuries. He is impervious to harm, except for his pride. 

James finishes his train of thought and gives his blazer a final pat down to make sure his Walther is concealed before descending into the humid Macanese night. No time for nostalgia, he has a job to do. 

*

Severine is beautiful in the way a caged animal is beautiful. From afar she seems perfect, Swarovski crystals gleaming on a sleek backless dress that hugs her in all the right places. Up close though she is damaged. A cracked porcelain doll, perhaps cherished once, but now thrown into an attic never to be seen again. He surmises she is a former sex worker, and manages to arrange a meeting with her employer. Her delicate fingers shake around the slim cigarette in her hands, a true testament to her fear of this unknown man. Her eyes shine with a faint glimmer of hope, and James can feel the familiar rush that accompanies imminent death begin to coil inside him. This will not end well, but it is his job and so he disperses with her body guards and joins her upon her ship. 

*

Raoul Silva is an interesting man to say the least. Bond takes interest the moment he sets eyes upon Silva as he saunters in, with that deceptively easy gait of his. It’s not the shockingly bleach blonde hair that interests him. Neither is it the way Silva parts his thighs with his, and trails his warm fingers teasing over his chest as he speaks of M and England. Silva twists his words, speaks of rats, of M, when in reality the implication is clear-- Silva and Bond, Bond and Silva. There is something familiar about him, something distinctly other. Before he can dwell on it further , he is being escorted out to a courtyard .

*

When Severine dies, James laments the loss of her beauty but feels nothing. Once he may have tried harder to save her, he the gallant English prince and she the damsel in distress from a far away land. Now he merely stares at her prone form, the blood spreading out from her head in a puddle of burgundy, and resolutely does not wonder of what could have been. Beings like him do not get happy endings. 

In the ensuing scuffle he forgets what it was about Silva he found so enticing as reinforcements from MI6 arrive to apprehend the cyber terrorist. 

*  
It is only when he is standing before Silva in his glass prison that James realizes his folly. To the guards Raoul Silva probably looks innocuous in his MI6 prisoner issue jumpsuit, but to James he is the very picture of a predator; muscles coiled ready to pounce. No man made cage can hold this creature. Raoul Silva is no more human than he is, and he curses himself for not seeing it sooner. Silva’s coy touches and talk of rats had distracted him from his true nature. 

From his perch behind the glass Silva stares at him, not at the man called James Bond but at him. He raises his palm to the glass as if beckoning James over. Silva’s hand is like a furnace even through the glass and Bond almost recoils from the sudden influx of heat as Silva smirks wickedly in his direction. For a moment Silva’s eyes flash amber behind the contacts as if you say, “Do you see now?” 

He takes a moment to truly look at the man who calls himself Raoul Silva. Beneath the human veneer is something ancient. A massive creature, huge leathery wings sprout from a gleaming silver scaled back. Talons, like shards of glass, glint dangerously from large feet. He wonders how old Silva really is, he had thought the dragons of Europe had all gone into hiding in their caves. It is not in their nature to leave their treasures unguarded for so long. Dragons have always been devious creatures and he wonders why Silva continues his farce when he could easily leave. 

When Silva finally speaks it is with rather obvious amusement ringing clear in his tone. “Look what she’s done to you.” “She’s collared you like a simple house pet.” “You my dear are not meant to be leashed. Freedom! Just think about it.” 

James’ blue eyes widened minutely before snapping back from his stupor to stare at Silva, the muscles of his face twitching to remain impassive and calm. “Surely you don’t mean that.” “But my dear Mr. Bond, I do.” “The world has changed, but that doesn’t mean we are obligated to disappear.” “No,” Silva hmmed. “We will make the world bow to our whims or it will break.” “It’s very simple no?” Before he can answer Silva, the doors unfrost and M strides in. He forcefully pushes down his curiosity to focus on the task at hand.  
Silva begins his conversation with M, the perfect picture of poise. He throws barbs at her, and it is obvious he knows her as she knows him. They banter shortly back and forth before M, moves to leave, after damning Silva with the promise of incarceration for the rest of his life. His calm demeanor finally cracks, and Bond knows the calm he initially showed was purely affectation.  
Dragons for all their craft and adeptness at lying, were never ones to hold back their fury. The platinum blonde man stands and demands she acknowledge the man he once was, and M, old bitch that she is, stalwartly refuses. Silva’s accompanying fury is all encompassing as the world seems to shrink around the three of them. Despite the blinding overhead lights, the shadows in the corners seem to darken and coalesce around the man. From their posts by the doors he sees the guards shiver out of the corner of his eyes. Silva’s voice is heavy with the roar of flames and ancient magic seems to crackle in the air around his glass prison, his fingers curl like claws around the seat as he speaks,  
“Do you know why I came back, mummy? It’s not very hard to understand, really.” Silva’s eyes watch M, and when she remains silent he merely continues, “Well then, allow me to enlighten you. For five months they tortured me, doing everything you can image and more. My only comfort was that you would realize I was taken and mount a rescue operation. As the months wore on, my hope began to falter, and I figured it out. You had abandoned me to die in a filthy pit in Guangdong and all I had left to hold on to was my hatred of you, and the hope that one day I would exact my revenge on you. I never suspected you would resort to lying, mummy. No matter, that idea, that itty bitty idea, it was like a lone beacon of light in my dark, damp little hole of a cell. It kept me whole through all their torture, the hazy vermeer of constant pain.”  
The hatred Bond sees in the Silva's eyes, and the madness, besides, is disquieting. But the scariest thing by far is the underlying sense of fondness that accompanies each word, as if this is all a game to him. The predator in him howls with pleasure at the thought. Finally someone on equal playing field with him.  
He speaks of hydrogen cyanide, before removing a plate from his mouth. The skin around his eye sags in the ruins of his face. James can see the shame in M’s eyes, minute as it is, before she finally turns from the imprisoned man. Silva laughs as they leave, his scarred face twisted in mockery. Once outside the frosted doors M looks unnerved, and in that moment he realizes that she knows what Silva is. She tells him of a brilliant agent named Tiago Rodriguez, and he can’t help but dwell once more on the similarities between Raoul Silva and himself. How easy it could have been to fall prey to his own madness. Whatever M has done, James cannot save her. After all, what use is a giant old dog against the hell fires of an embittered dragon?  
*  
Silva escapes from his grasp, successfully hacking into Q branches systems once again. As usual James is tasked with cleaning up the mess. The thought almost brings a smile to his face, he wouldn’t have it any other way.  
*  
He can’t help but mull over Silva’s offer of camaraderie as he makes his way to Skyfall with M in tow. The temptation to give himself completely over to the possibility Silva is suggesting is overwhelming. 

He had seen through the illusion projected by Silva. Hydrogen cyanide can’t harm a dragon, he is a being crafted from fire, fire is his to command, he cannot burn. The scars however are very real. Dragons, especially the European ones, had always been a prideful bunch. Chances are they managed to immobilize Silva somehow, by playing to his pride. If he had to guess he would say consecrated pure silver chains judging by the fact they still had yet to fade entirely after all this time.

Their brief interaction had left him aching with the prospect of something more. This is all a game and Silva is after Bond’s Queen, M, once he has her it’s checkmate...game over. The thought saddens him more than he thought it would.

For all their physical differences, he can’t deny the multitude of similarities between them. They are both Other. They represent darkness, beings beyond the physical plane of this world, the eldritch, inconceivable things that go bump in the night. Relics, really, he supposes. The development of technology like CCTV and the ever growing human populace has made assuming his true form difficult, but not impossible. Still his status as a harbinger death to those around him hasn’t changed a bit as he remembers Vesper bitterly, and although the image amuses him, he cannot see Silva in a mountain cave hoarding piles of gold and young virgins either. There is no place for them here in this world. In the silence of the car he cocks his head to the side, as M dozes in the passenger seat of his Aston. Maybe Silva was right he thinks...last two rats indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

He had picked Skyfall not because it was his, well Bonds ancestral home, but rather for the large number of ley lines that convened in the area. The ley lines had always lent him strength in times of trouble, it was unfortunate such old world magic was unable to be manipulated. Magic that old, sees no good or evil and Silva would most likely benefit from their influence as well. Just as well he supposes, he wants them to be on equal footing, or else it might not be as fun.

*

The resulting fight when Silva arrives is one of the more memorable ones of James’ lifetime. It’s not often he comes across someone able to match him. In the light of the fire engulfing his former abode, Raoul Silva’s eyes are mesmerizing in their intensity and James knows enough not to stare too long lest he fall pray to their trap. The former 00 agent looks at home with the light of the fire blazing around him. His blonde hair is illuminated by the flames in a sort of macabre halo. Plumes of smoke rise into the chilly air, as the flames dye the sky a deep bloody red. If he listens closely he can hear the fire whisper promises of destruction to the wind. The wooden beams of the old house groan and crack behind him as they collapse under the caress of the flames as he slips out of the priest hole, having sent M on ahead, and sprints across the field towards the chapel.

The landscape of the moor is familiar to him, in his younger days he would run for miles his paws carrying him faster and faster until he was only a faint greenish blur in the moonlight.

*  
Running now across the ground he has never felt more whole, the cloying scent of blood is thick in the air, M’s wound bleeding out to paint a grisly trail across the earth. He dispatches with Silva’s armed man with ease, the cold water of the pond doing nothing to slow him down. When he reaches the chapel his excitement is almost tangible. Silva is holding M to his chest in a mimicry of a loving hug as the woman fights to stay awake. Her already pale complexion is sickly in its pallor, her blood still flowing from her in a steady stream. The terrorist has no need for a gun, his own abilities alone proving substantial enough a threat to still any weak attempts she may try at breaking free.  
*  
James discretely pulls his Bowie knife from its sheath hidden in his soaked jacket pocket. His throat feels dry and he nervously palms the knife, feeling conflicted. So this is it he thinks, the end of the game. He tries to think, heart pumping adrenaline lightening quick through his veins. What would he--no wait would James Bond do? With this is mind, he considers his words carefully before deciding on his approach. “Tiago you don’t have to do this. Isn’t this enough? M isn’t going to last much longer. He instantly regrets his decision to speak, and winces internally at the banality of his words.  
*  
“Tiago is gone, he represented a humanity that never really existed at all. It was always me, I just didn’t know it yet.” “Whatever she told you is a lie. Would you like to know the real reason she handed me over to the Chinese, hm? Someone let it slip that MI6 had a living dragon in their employ and so they offered M a deal. In return for six worthless little agents she would give them me to do with as they wished. She had to keep the matter hush hush. It didn’t matter how many years of service I’d given her, she sold me out in a minute. She let them take my blood, my scales all in exchange for what?” Silva spits the next words as if they were venom, “Those agents weren’t worth a fraction of me. When it came down to it, she valued a human life over mine. So you see she doesn’t trust us! We’re useful until we’re not, sooner or later she’ll see how dangerous you can really be, and find a way to dispatch of you as well.” He stares at James without blinking, fire burning lowly in his eyes, nails beginning to sharpen as his fury grows.  
“What she’s taken from me is much more important than looks James, she let them take my very essence, my magic.“ The emphasis Silva puts on the word alone shows how hard he is trying to hold his anger in check. Throughout his venomous tirade he had steadily been suffocating M with his hold, the old woman now barely conscious. The sound of her wound dripping steadily onto the floor of the chapel around the two men brings Silva back to himself.  
Silva lets out a self deprecating laugh as he says, “So you see Mr. Bond what I must do? This isn’t merely revenge; this is retribution. I think I’m being kind, don’t you? I could curse her entire family, generations to come, but instead I’m letting her settle the debt. All I want from her is her life. After all what is one tiny infinitesimal human life in the scale of things? Besides who do you think she’ll turn on next once I’ve been eliminated, hm? She’s already proven to be untrustworthy once James.”  
*  
He wasn’t foolish enough to think this would last forever. Sooner or late he would be replaced, the fate of all 00 agents. The respect and fear he had cultivated among the ranks of MI6 would mean nothing in the face of a bullet between his eyes. Perhaps they’d say he slipped in his old age and been taken out on the field. At least that is what would happen had James Bond actually been human. As it is, he has no intention of stopping this game of his. He’s grown to quite like this spy business, and now there is the matter of Raoul Silva--Tiago Rodriquez.  
Every creature...such as themselves has a certain something. This something, whatever you want to call it, is what gives them life, purpose. It’s an essence of sorts. James’ is simple, as a Cu Sith he has one main purpose: he heralds the death of people. Without this essence James would simply cease to be, he would be nothing. He had been without purpose once before however briefly it was; when M asked him where he was, he was being truthful when he said, “enjoying death.” The drink and drugs offered comfort, though very little, to the pain in his soul at the sudden loss of his purpose. Pain was what drove him back to M, to MI6, and so it is for this reason he understands Silva. He can’t even imagine what losing his own power would feel like, it would be like suddenly going blind after seeing your entire life.  
*  
James still has his knife trained at Silva, but at this point they both know it’s merely a formality. Years of whispered oaths and the code the Unseelie Court come back to him. The voices whisper: change is good, honor is a lie, passion before duty. His hesitation is proof of how long he has tried to mould himself to the laws of man.  
It is that code which has guided him this far he realizes. So he lowers his knife and steels himself for what follows.  
James has had the pleasure of meeting dragons other than Silva. Nonetheless, the fires of Fafnir and Smok Wawelski look like mere campfires in the face of the fire Silva unleashes. From her place on the cold stone floor there is no fear in M’s eyes, only a hollow resignation as she is swallowed by the unnatural blue flames. Minutes pass like hours as what was once his master crumbles to nothing more than a streak of black against the floors. Finally the fire dies out and all that is left is silence broken only by the quiet breaths of the two not-men, and the crackling of the quickly dying embers.  
The knife he had been holding clatters to the floor. Silva wordlessly extends his hand and this time James takes it. Silva hand is warm with the promise of more than companionship. With Silva as his master--no partner he thinks, they will rend flesh from bone and the incinerate the world as they see fit. The age of man is over.  
Far across the ocean, Gareth Mallory shivers in his bed, his arm aching, as he hears a ghostly howl.  
*  
There were whispers among the preternatural courts of a Spanish Cuelebre who had managed to tame a Scottish Cu Sith to do his bidding. The two had made a name for themselves. Everywhere they went death and destruction seemed to follow them as they painted a bloody trail across the globe.  
 


End file.
